"Vincent?"

"Hmmm ..." he murmured.

He broke his attention away from the music, opened his eyes, and titled his head toward hers. She was in his arms; Bach floated above them.

"Why have you never cut your hair?" Catherine asked, looking up at him. Her right hand rose and she briefly stroked his hair before looking down, flushed.

She had been relaxed and the thought just popped into her mind. She loved his hair; she wondered if she could imagine it short, or really in any other form than the one it took before her. On impulse she had reached for his hair; she knew it had been rather forward, never mind the fact that she had just brought up what could potentially be an uncomfortable topic.

He gave her a quick little hug, telling her without words that she needn't worry about broaching a taboo subject. She squeezed him back, lightly, waiting for his answer.

"I've never wanted to," he began. "Mary would trim my hair when I was young. Afterward, she would wash it and she would rub my head and then brush my hair. It felt divine. She would hum and tell me how soft my hair was. I loved those moments; with short hair, I never would have had them."

Catherine smiled and wrapped her arms around him.

"Mary was so good to you; you are so lucky to have had her," Catherine murmured.

"Yes, she was more than a mother to me. When all the other children started growing older, they pulled away from her, seeking their independence and wanting to play with their friends. I only got closer to her. She comforted me, and even though she never said the words, I feel as if she understood me, that she understood what it felt like to be me."

"She is very empathetic," Catherine agreed.

"Yes, it's a wonderful gift," Vincent replied. "Catherine?"

"Yes?"

"Do you like my hair?" Vincent said, softly.

Catherine looked up at him, smiling. "Of course I like it!"

"You wouldn't have it any other way?"

She laughed and squeezed him tight. "I wouldn't have it any other way."

They paused as the first notes of "Air on a G String" unfolded above them. They sighed together in contentment; it was a favorite for both of them. Vincent let his head fall back gently against the wall and closed his eyes. There was something truly magical about this piece. It colored the world around it, making everything seem possible and poignant.

Catherine was just as moved and absentmindedly started stroking his chest. After a moment, he stilled her hand with his own, and brought her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm softly. She took the opportunity to touch his cheek. Vincent began stroking her hair, pausing ever so briefly to touch the side of her face. Neither opened their eyes, both afraid the spell would break.

When the piece ended, Catherine held her breath, bracing herself for the inevitable moment when Vincent would realize how close they were and move away. Miraculously, Albinoni's "Adagio in G Minor" began and Catherine sighed in relief; a small smile crept to her face. Vincent loved this song, and he hadn't moved at all. She relaxed back into the fold of his arm as he continued to stroke her hair. Catherine's fingers gently caressed his cheek again before moving to his chin. When her fingers glanced his lips, Vincent stiffened, but did not pull away. Still lost in the music and the moment, Catherine softly traced his lower lip before her fingers slipped under his chin and onto his neck.

Vincent's eyes flew open. He had no idea why he was still sitting there—maybe because her touches were so innocent, without an agenda, maybe because he didn't want this moment to end. Her fingers had returned to his lips and she lightly ran the pad of her thumb along his upper lip. He sighed heavily and with his mouth open, she took the opportunity to pull at his bottom lip with two lazy fingers. Feeling the wetness of his mouth was the most intimate thing he had ever allowed, and she wasn't surprised when his hand tightened around hers. She was about to surrender and move away, but when he didn't, she pushed herself up with her free arm and sat sideways, facing him. He was still holding her hand and both were resting on his chest.

Vincent was staring at her without expression, though his eyes burned bright with emotion. She pulled her hand free from his and clutched his chin. They were instantly reminded of the time she had held him this way before, when he had tried to pull away from her after he had kissed the cut from the rose, before they were interrupted and the moment lost forever. He didn't pull away this time though. She saw his mouth open slightly as he swallowed hard.

Ever so slowly, Catherine leaned forward. Her hand dropped from his face and onto his chest, where she grabbed his neckline, gently pulling herself closer to him. Much to her amazement, his arms came up around her, his hands splayed across her back. She sighed—the slightest touch from him moved her more than the sum of every touch she had ever known.

Her lips landed softly upon his and they both made the tiniest whimper of happiness, wonder, and desire. She paused briefly before opening her mouth on his and drawing in his warm breath. He clutched her tighter as her hands held his face.

How long had she waited for this, their first kiss? How many times had she dreamed this, only to wake to find herself alone? How many times had words failed them, both knowing that this was the only way left to express what they so deeply felt?

Catherine began kissing him gently, small soft kisses that belied the intensity of her feelings. Finally, barely, he began kissing her back, slightly turning his head to accommodate her mouth, causing Catherine's heart to flip inside her chest. Her hands framed his face tenderly, almost reverently; she understood the magnitude of this for him and she cherished his trust in her.

Emboldened, she moved her leg to rest between his and was reassured when his hands came up to grip her shoulders. She shifted her weight, lightly brushing against him, and moaned softly when she felt the evidence of his desire. Just as he gripped her shoulders firmly, a loud crash from above shattered the moment. Reflexively, he held her tighter; she jumped back, startled. In what felt like slow motion, but was the briefest of seconds, Catherine jerked away from Vincent, just as his right hand raked across her shoulder, tearing the fabric beneath it, cutting into her skin.

Catherine cried out, not from the pain—in fact, she hadn't noticed it at all—but from the shock of the loud noise. When she realized what had happened, her heart lurched into her throat and she immediately looked up at Vincent.

Vincent looked as if he had seen a ghost, or worse. She had never seen him so pale. He had practically crawled out from under her and was now moving away from her. Her hand went to her shoulder then and when it returned, blood lightly dotted her fingertips. And then it all flashed before her—their kiss, their intimate contact, the loud noise, her reaction, his reaction—oh God!

Catherine lunged toward Vincent and managed to grab onto his leg.

"No Vincent," she cried. "It's not what you think. The noise ... that's what made me jump ... not you ... it's okay."

Vincent had stopped moving, but Catherine knew it wasn't because of what she had said. It was almost as if his body and mind had protectively shut down—he was in shock. She watched him raise his hand in front of him; it was shaking violently.

"Vincent, listen to me!" she said, gripping the legs of his trousers. "It was an accident; you didn't mean to ... the noise scared me and I reacted; it's not your fault!"

What must he be thinking? That she pulled away because she was repulsed by his body? Was he remembering what he had done to Lisa?

"Vincent! Please, listen to me," she pleaded.

Vincent looked up at her, but didn't see her. He clumsily scrambled backward, his boots kicking up dirt. She tried to hold onto him, but he ripped away from her. Before she could call his name out, he was on his feet and tearing down the tunnel. She didn't even get up—she knew he was gone. Stunned, Catherine looked around at their music chamber and knew that something precious was forever lost. Even if they could move past this—and she doubted he could—this special place would always be a reminder of what had happened here.

Overcome, Catherine crawled over to their place on the blankets and started sobbing. Hadn't they suffered enough? They had endured one hundred times what most lovers faced—wasn't it enough? Couldn't something good happen for them? And what about Vincent? Certainly he had weathered more pain than anyone could ever expect and he had never lost his spirit, never had become bitter or despondent or self-pitying. Surely he deserved even the smallest amount of happiness.

Suddenly, a roar tore its way through the tunnels; the sorrow and hopelessness it held...

"Oh, Vincent," she cried.